


Rhythm and movement

by Aegiswarrior



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, set during s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegiswarrior/pseuds/Aegiswarrior
Summary: You two have a rhythm. There are a thousand distractions that try to set it off course, and they always fail. School can be blown off, parents tricked, boys manipulated. But it’s one thing for one of those dumb boys to ignore you, one thing another for this girl. The one who always let you spin her into one more dance, who would always cancel dates with anyone if you were bored and wanted her instead.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Kudos: 13





	Rhythm and movement

It’s easy to get used to a certain rhythm. To take it as natural, to expect the entire world to bend itself to it too. It’s not a complex song. It’s one that hums in the back of your head, one you've heard since that first day she ever smiled at you. 

(That's another habit. That the song in your head will stay the same, like you will stay the same, like she will too. That everything else can bend and break, but she will always be there, standing close. That she will bend close to you to hear you whisper something rude about someone else, that her lips will bend too.)

Maybe this stupid club made it louder. Took the words you kept shoved so deep inside and gave them structure, took the melodies that possess you and gave them air. Maybe it made you think about these things, about honesty and bravery and desire. Or maybe it just deluded you like everything else.

But. You had a rhythm. A simple one. It would play itself for you, counting beats in every glance she gives you. Keeping time while she danced, spinning faster and louder whenever you let yourself dwell on these thoughts. It’s easy to get into a habit, to get complacent. 

And then she tells you no.

And oh, you cannot remember the last time that word actually hurt.

The last time it really meant no, and wasn't just a _maybe, I don't know, convince me more Santana_.

You two have a rhythm. There are a thousand distractions that try to set it off course, and they always fail. School can be blown off, parents tricked, boys manipulated. But it’s one thing for one of those dumb boys to ignore you, one thing another for this girl. The one who always let you spin her into one more dance, who would always cancel dates with anyone if you were bored and wanted her instead. 

(It’s not the no that hurts. Oh, if only. It’s the thought that someone else has stolen your place, has set out their own siren call, that there even could be another song she would want to dance to.)

(You wish this were easier. That she really was as dumb as they say she is, that you could pull from your deep bag of tricks like you would for any other idiot boy. Flutter eyelashes and pretend to smile and they lose all backbone. Brittany still says no.)

So, the rhythm in your head changes. Becomes jagged, stuttered, off key. You pretend its angry, that you have one more excuse to lash out at the world and everyone around you. It’s not. It’s not even sad. Instead your head just jumps from scene to scene, like you've turned into one of those old scratched CDs. Jump, and you’re in the back of the club like always, but she’s not with you. Jump, and you see Brittany smile from a distance, and it’s almost enough. Jump, and Quinn is staring at you, at the ugly expression your face has twisted into and you really, really want to turn into one of those idiot boys, that you could just shove her down and get away with it.

Jump, and school is over, Glee club is over, and you're driving home alone.

(Your house feels too quiet. You play music off your phone, drive the volume up louder and louder, and its still not enough. That jagged rhythm in your head conflicts with every song you play, but the noise is better than the silence.)

* * *

There's consistency in who you present yourself as, in who you'll let yourself be. It’s easy to act, to paint on a cruel smile and dig barbs into someone else's skin. Harder to drag out thoughts that are more delicate, harder to dwell on just how fragile she makes you. How nothing spares you from the memory of people glancing at you as you ran away from her. How no bad reputation could stop people from looking, considering, theorising. If only. 

(You hear the rumours. They've surrounded you for too long now. Fear and lies does little to kill curiosity, after all. Not when you two used to act like a bonded pair, rhythm and movement, one never much more than a step behind the other. Not when you've always been too comfortable touching, not when the club made you feel so indulgent that you started letting her take naps on your shoulder during lunch, stopped brushing her hand away when it inevitably reached for yours. Not when you started to admit to yourself how much you really want. Turns out you're a pretty poor liar after all.)

It still hurts, thinking about it too much. But you're starting to hate the persona you paint on every day, and you are so tired of how hard it is to force yourself to be honest, even to yourself. How trying to unwrap the who and what of yourself feels like reaching too deep, like you are going to get caught on the jagged edges of yourself. 

That's it, simple as it is. You are not just broken glass and barbed wire. It would be easy if you were. But you're not. And you can hear the words she said to you, buzzing in the back of your head, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. That you need to be honest, be real. Maybe not to everyone, not yet, but honest to yourself. 

(Those words made you feel so weak when you first heard them. They still sap away at your strength now, but you linger in the feeling. Let it drive you, until you feel brave enough to take them as truth.)

* * *

(She spelt the word wrong, but it’s obvious what she meant. Obvious what it means to anyone else too, were you to walk in with it emblazoned on your chest. You want to be strong. But you can't, you really can't. Not yet. But you still take the shirt, and you still wear it. Take it home with you, even. It lets you finally put a label to the who and the what. It’s not what she wanted, or what she asked you for, but you lie on your bed and finally say the word out loud for yourself.)

* * *

So. Long story short. You find a song. One that settles the mess in your head, gives you clarity. You stick it on repeat until the words have been burnt into your mind, until you've dragged her aside and asked her to listen to one more song, only one that doesn't have the rest of the club staring at you over her shoulder.

(One step at a time, you think.)

It’s one thing to listen to a song. One thing to play it in the background for days, one thing to hum it to yourself. It’s something quite different to have to sing the words yourself, when the usual glitz and glamour of performance has been cut away, and it’s just you and a set of words you've never been brave enough to say in your own voice. 

(Nothing should scare you. That's how you work. Poisonous smiles and sharp words, and the occasional shove. Easy as anything. You've sang before, in front of so many people. But the shreds of honesty you’ve allowed her to see makes this so much harder. It’s one thing to sing, another to really mean the words.)

The melody is both soothing and heart wrenching at the same time, wounding and healing. So, you do what you always do, and shove those feelings deep, deep down, and focus.

(It’s not enough for her. She has that soft look in her eyes, and she reaches for you this time, but it’s still not enough. She wants you to be brave, be bold, to take her by the hand and let her drag you up.)

(She makes you promise to be brave together, to breathe truth into the rumours once and for all.)

(You tell her you will.)

(You're lying.)

* * *

They know, you think. They must. They must all know, must have all seen the way you look at her, have to have smelt the truth of it on your skin. There are a hundred pieces of an obvious puzzle just waiting to be put together. 

They know, and they will talk. Louder and louder until the whole town knows, until your parents know, until your abuela...

It’s only when you stumble into another room, words tumbling out of your mouth without your brain fielding them first, that you register the panic you're in. It disconnects you from your body, until you're a stranger looking in. You feel yourself pacing, hear the nonsense your mouth spews out, but you can’t stop it. 

(She found you. Of course, of course, of course. Even after all this messy drama, the _yes_ and _no_ and _I'm so scared Brittany what if_ \- of this past year she still finds you.)

(She manages to calm you. You're not quite sure how.)

(She says it again. Makes another show about honesty. You know, you know, you know. All your lies are like acid, seeping through your skin to eat at your insides.)

She grounds you, reminds you of the reality of where they are, what just happened. That no one noticed you, or really cared. That something else matters more now.

(When did she get so smart, you wonder.)

She sticks her hand out, and you take it, follow in her wake. 

* * *

(Rhythm and movement. You've always needed a counterweight.)

* * *

That summer changes everything. And it’s funny. When you were young, or drunk, when you let yourself dream of what you want, you always thought this sort of revelation would be grand and dramatic. 

But you find yourself in the quiet moments. You find yourself in the beat of a new song, in the heat of the sun, in Brittany laughing close to your ear and pulling you off the ground to dance with her in her backyard.

You find yourself in the tiny smile you find stained on her lips whenever you sing to her. In the way her family never look twice at you being in her house again, in how your parents just assume she is there with you, in the way you have become that same bonded pair again.

(You find yourself one night, when you sneak out of your house to see her and do nothing more rebellious than stare at the sky and talk. She tells you things that are wild, and mad, and secretly brilliant.)

(You admit to her the who and what that you are. Giving it breath should be terrifying, should make you want to run. Or break something. To turn back into who everyone thinks you are, loud and poisonous and sharp. But she just nods, wraps her hand around yours and tells you that she knows. That she thinks it makes you strong.)

(You want her to be right.)

But you start saying it more. Just to yourself, or to her. It still weighs heavy, still tastes like fear. But knowing who you are is grounding. Saying it aloud makes it real, makes it honest.

(Makes it dangerous.)

One more year, you think. 

Easy.


End file.
